


Bruises

by TooRational



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Bruises, Cuddling & Snuggling, Gentleness, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-12
Updated: 2017-11-12
Packaged: 2019-02-01 05:10:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12698028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TooRational/pseuds/TooRational
Summary: Daryl finds out about the Saviors imprisoned at Hilltop.





	Bruises

**Author's Note:**

> This is a love letter to Jesus and Daryl.
> 
> I can't get these two out of my head.
> 
> Rated M for language.

After Daryl kills Morales (good fucking riddance, he had a gun to Rick's head, you don't threaten Daryl's family and get away with it, whoever the fuck you were years ago), he is calm and cold and _angry_. The freezing kind of anger that sinks deep into your bones and claws itself a spot there, making you feel like you'll never be warm again. Daryl never felt this kind of rage, his temper usually running hot and fast, rarely holding grudges for longer than a few days.  


_This_ is like an out-of-body experience. As if there is a glass wall between Daryl's emotions and his brain, and he looks at the screaming, tortured, scared version of himself and just feels... nothing. No emotions can pass through the glass. All he feels is the coldness of rage.

After Daryl kills the kid that was hiding behind the tree, he's still angry, but also impatient, dreading something happening to his family, to Carol. (Because Carol is at Gavin's compound with Ezekiel, he realizes, and if the gun is there... it's a line of thought he doesn't dare finish, can't.) He takes the shot and the kid is down before he makes a conscious decision to pull the trigger.

And after he feels nothing. Just irritation, a mild sort of annoyance. He doesn't have time for this shit.

From the corner of his eye he sees Rick giving him The Look again but Daryl can't bring himself to care. Carol is a priority, this fucking mission is a priority, there'll be time for shit that's not kill-or-be-killed survival later.

And it he doesn't see that later nor the end of the war, well...

Even better.

Carol turns out to be fine (a little banged up but fine). He finds Rick and everyone at Alexandria fine, too, when he gets back. Well, aside from Eric, but Daryl can't think about him, mind slipping and sliding and shying away from it every time he remembers Aaron's red-rimmed eyes.

What does it say about him, that he can't scrounge up enough emotion to be there for Aaron? The only remaining half of the couple who were the first people outside of his family that saw something worthwhile in him? Welcomed him, fed him, gave him his bike, been there for him?

No use thinking about it. Or his damned soul, tattered as it is.

Still, something nags at him, won't let him keep still for a day, then two, three.

He hadn't seen Maggie yet, or Enid, he realizes. And even though Rick told him they were ok last he knew, Daryl still needs to make sure. Tara should be there, too, with Morgan and Jesus. He could get a sitrep on the last compound, better than the short 'mission successful' he has now.

He drives to the Hilltop on autopilot, the roaring of the bike keeping his thoughts at bay. He shivers even though it's warm, the creeping numbness an old companion by now, spreading to his muscles and lingering, making his arms and legs tremble almost imperceptibly.

He runs into Tara as he's passing Hilltop's gates, somehow looking bored out of her skull and pissed off at the same time, and the faint relief that warms his insides at seeing her safe and alive disappears as soon as she tells him she's heading to 'guard duty'.

There's a bunch of Saviors at Hilltop.

There's a bunch of Saviors that 'surrendered' at Hilltop, in two old trailers at the back, _alive_ , and _Jesus_ is the one responsible.

And suddenly, Daryl is fucking _furious_.

It burns through him like a wildfire, heart racing, chest heaving, hands tightening into fists.

_That stupid little prick._

He can't even remember the trip to Jesus' trailer, he's just suddenly there, climbing the steps and hissing, „What the hell, man!“ as he barges through the door.

Jesus whips his head around at the sudden noise and drops the shirt he's been changing into.

Whatever Daryl planned on saying next is lost as he stops dead in his tracks.

Jesus' chest and arms are _covered_ in bruises, stark and obscene on pale skin.

There's a perfectly round black-and-blue-and-purple one the size of a softball just below his sternum. Two weirdly straight ones across his chest and stomach that almost look like whip marks but are clearly much thicker, no cuts or crusted blood at the center either. There's one on his left bicep, a sprawling purple one on the right side of his waist that looks like it goes all the way to his back. It's a horrifyingly familiar sight, a smaller chest and back reflected in a mirror superimposing itself over Jesus' for a disorienting second, and Daryl's breath stutters before steadying again.

This... is not what he expected.

„Did you come to tell me how stupid and naive I am, too?“ Jesus asks after a long moment, bending to pick up his shirt, and Daryl gets a glimpse of one more bruise darkening his upper shoulders.

Jesus makes a good show of pretending he's not in pain but his body betrays him, the stiffness in his muscles obvious as he's pulling the shirt on. His stomach trembles slightly at the stretch, and his forearms, revealed as he gingerly slides his arms through the sleeves of his T-shirt, are a black-and-blue mess.

„Because I think I've heard more than enough opinions on that the last few days. But if you still want to give it a shot, go ahead.“

Jesus takes the few steps to the couch, sits, and looks at Daryl with a resigned, expectant look on his face.

Daryl frowns and clenches his fists, mind a confusing tangle of 'who did this' and 'fucking idiot, isn't he a ninja, who could do this to him', and among them, 'why would anyone want to hurt _him_ ' and 'when the fuck did I start giving a shit'.

Daryl can't seem to open his mouth anyway to say any of it, though, so he just glares at Jesus helplessly.

„Do you need help formulating the words?“ Jesus says sharply. „Will that make this go quicker? Fine. Here, take your pick,“ Jesus continues, quick and biting, like he knows the words by heart, like he's heard them several times over, like he replays them in his head constantly.

„'It's stupid. Where are we going to keep all these people? How are we going to feed them? They killed our people, our friends, our family members. They deserve what they get, they knew what they signed up for. This is war, we have to execute our enemies before they come for us.'“

Daryl barely has the time to process the familiarity of the last sentence, something Rick said to Morgan when...

Morgan. Morgan was with that group, with Jesus and Tara. The straight, thick bruises that look like they were made by a stick.

Morgan did this to Jesus.

Daryl swallows and opens his mouth to say something but doesn't know what, and it doesn't matter anyway because Jesus is on a roll, chest heaving but voice tight and controlled, like he wants to get this over with as efficiently as possible.

„'How dare I make this decision for everyone? Somebody is going to get killed because of me. They're abusive assholes who get off on power games. I barely knew the people who died anyway. Why should anyone listen to me? I'm not part of your group, I'm barely a part of Hilltop. Even if Maggie listens to me, Rick won't, and I'll be responsible for the consequences.'“

The last sentence seems to choke Jesus as it comes out and he snaps his mouth shut, turning his head to the side and clenching his knees until his fingertips turn white with pressure.

'Who told you that', Daryl wants to ask, but his throat is refusing to cooperate.

Who the fuck would tell him that he's not a part of the group? Who would tell him that his voice doesn't matter, that they don't care? Who would tell that to Jesus of all people, who put his ass on the line for various members of their group over and over again? Hell, Daryl's rescue operation, Jesus sharing his trailer and clothing for weeks with him and Maggie and Sasha and Enid, his steady and quiet support a balm on their bleeding wounds—there's no end to what Jesus gave them, free and with a small smile, just in the last few months they met him.

And what the fuck does 'abusive assholes who get off on power games' mean? It's specific enough not to be a general statement but... But that would mean one of those Savior assholes actually...

Daryl's brain stalls.

„Just go, please, I don't want to fight anymore.“ Jesus rubs his face roughly with both hands, looking as if the last of his strength got sapped by his speech.

And Daryl is frozen, standing and staring at Jesus like a dumbass, rage rapidly draining away.

It's just.

It's just that Jesus looks so _small_ , shoulders hunched, hands loosely clasped in his lap, eyes huge on his pale face but still trained warily on Daryl. He looks tired, defeated, and incredibly sad. He looks like he's giving up.

Jesus never gives up. The day they first met was a fucking lesson in how tenacious and resourceful and downright stubborn Jesus was. And Jesus never looked small __before, not to Daryl. His presence, be it the soothing Jesus persona or the snarky and sneaky asshole pickpocket, was always large, magnetic, definitely bigger than his compact frame would suggest.

A giant fist wraps around Daryl's gut and squeezes. Jesus shouldn't look this, it's just wrong.

Sure, Daryl hasn't been his biggest fan at the beginning, but the little ninja prick has proven time and again to be a good person. A kind person. He's smart, quick, strategic thinker, sneaky as fuck, can take care of himself, constantly goes out and risks his life to get people what they want, get his community what it needs to survive.

But he's also separate, keeps people at a distance. Daryl can tell because he used to do that, too. Observe but not get involved, that's the best way not to get hurt. Daryl wonders if there's anyone alive that really knows Jesus, or Paul Rovia, anymore.

A confusing tangle of fierce protectiveness and aching sympathy washes over Daryl.

Jesus is... fucking lovely. And isn't that a word Daryl barely remembers he ever knew, but it's true, he is. Jesus is lovely inside and out.

And he doesn't deserve to be sad and hurting and alone, not when he's trying to do what he believes is the right thing. Not when he's fighting for something everyone gave up on ages ago, drowned in the blood of friends and enemies and allies, sacrificed for bare survival.

„Nah,“ Daryl finally says, voice rough. He makes his legs move, crossing slowly over to the couch and sitting next to Jesus. Leaning his head back to rest on the trailer wall, Daryl stares at the ceiling.

Jesus watches him warily for a few moments, like one would a ticking time bomb or a feral cat, then sinks back into the couch with a tiny grunt.

„Morgan do that to you,“ Daryl says after a few long moments of silence, more a statement than a question. Jesus glances at him then returns to staring at his own patch of ceiling.

„He got confused, I don't think he even realized who I was. He left afterwards, nobody knows where he is.“

As if that doesn't mean Morgan couldn't have killed him, _wouldn't_ _have_ if he managed to. Someone with Jesus' skills getting this hurt fighting Morgan means anybody else in his situation would have probably been killed.

„I tried to calm him down, wear him out, but he just... kept coming,“ Jesus says quietly.

Daryl knows Morgan, he's probably fine on his own physically, but mentally... This sounds like he's reversed back to the person who almost killed Rick. And while Daryl hated Morgan's 'all life is precious' bullshit, he's downright scared of 'kill everyone' Morgan. That Morgan is useful, and efficient, but can't be controlled or reasoned with.

Daryl tilts his head and looks at Jesus, gaze snagging on clouded blue eyes, the soft curve of his cheek, the long line of his throat beneath his beard. There's a tiny scratch-bruise a bit off-center and to the left of Jesus' Adam's apple, and Daryl stares in fascination until he realizes it was probably made by Morgan's stick.

He knows what Morgan can do with his stick, he's seen it. A bit faster, a bit harder, and... no more Jesus.

That thought brings back the fist gripping at his insides, and Daryl's hand lifts without permission. He gently presses his thumb against the bruise, knuckles brushing against Jesus' collarbone. He feels Jesus' breath hitch under his thumb, pulse jumping visibly, and abruptly comes back to himself.

Daryl snatches his hand away, stands up and moves for the door, a voice screaming 'what the fuck WHAT THE FUCK' in his head.

Something brushes the back of his arm and then there's movement at the corner of his eye, accompanied by a stifled yelp of pain. Daryl turns back and takes in Jesus' hunched over figure, hand that was reaching out to stop him retreating back to his thigh curling in a fist, hair falling down in a curtain and hiding what's probably a grimace of pain.

Daryl hesitates for a moment, two, then comes back to sit on the couch, pressing at Jesus' shoulders gently in an attempt to ease him into a reclining position.

„...ow,“ Jesus says plaintively, hands grasping at Daryl's forearms tightly. His messed up forearms are on display again, and Daryl viciously wishes he could beat the shit out of anyone who ever looked at the little ninja wrong, let alone touched any part of him with the intent to hurt.

„Damn idiot, 's what you are,“ Daryl mutters, looking down and, before he can talk himself out of it, gingerly places a palm over the bruise on Jesus' waist that he knows hides under the thin t-shirt.

Heat is good for bruises after the swelling goes down, a few days in. Daryl would know, he used to fall asleep curled up as tight as he could bear, skinny thighs pressed against his chest, arms wrapped around legs. Wishing there was a way he could reach the painful lines on his back, imagining a gentle hand covering the aching skin.

„Hey,“ Jesus says softly, and Daryl lifts his head from watching his own hand rise and fall in the gentle rhythm of Jesus' breathing.

And Jesus is really close, holy fuck. Daryl just barely stops himself from flinching back, mostly because the movement would probably hurt Jesus again, and Daryl... Daryl doesn't want to do that. Not ever.

The thought overrides his first instinct ( _run_ ) and leaves him in uncharted territory, though.

Now what?

Daryl's eyes dart all over Jesus' face and return back to his eyes, watching as tight lines of pain slowly disappear under the tiniest of smiles that's starting to appear.

Heart beating hard and fast, Daryl forces himself to stay still.

„Feels good. Heat, and pressure,“ Jesus says into the tense moment, matter of fact, like they aren't basically tangled up in each other, like this is some kind of normal for them. And it's so weird and unexpected that the tension just drains out of Daryl, making him huff out a startled half-laugh.

„Heat's good for bruises after a couple days, but...“ Daryl trails off, biting his lip anxiously. How does he say 'there's too many bruises, I'm so sorry. I can't help you, I don't know how. No one ever showed me. I'm not good at this part, healing, helping'?

„...I might have an idea,“ Jesus says cautiously after what seems like an internal back-and-forth, and Daryl frowns. „But it's completely up to you. Really, don't feel obligated-- I mean, I can manage, really, it's not even that bad. They're already healing and it's not like--“

„ _What_ ,“ Daryl grits out, because it seems like Jesus is flustered and on a very un-Jesus-like babble roll and it's making Daryl nervous. Daryl's not good with nervous, his temper usually gets the better of him.

Jesus opens his mouth, inhales. Pauses. Shuts his mouth. Sighs, then tries again.

„Look, I don't know how to...“ Jesus makes a vague wavy motion that means absolutely nothing to Daryl and clams up again. They stare at each other in a weird stand-off, Daryl confused and wary and Jesus looking awkward.

„I'm just gonna....“ Jesus trails off, _again_ , and if he doesn't finish a fucking sentence soon, Daryl will probably bark out something. And instantly regret it.

Jesus seems to make up his mind and moves forward, suddenly too close and filling Daryl's entire field of vision, and this time Daryl _does_ flinch back. Pulse skyrocketing, Daryl stops himself before snatching his hands away from Jesus' waist and shoulder, _barely_ , more in an attempt to not hurt Jesus than anything.

After a small pause Jesus continues moving towards Daryl, slowly and carefully, elbows tucked in close, hands landing lightly at the sides of Daryl's rib cage. The heat of Jesus' forehead settling on Daryl's right shoulder is like a burning brand.

Hugging is something Daryl does with his family, and truthfully, it's not even that weird and awkward anymore. But he never touched Jesus like that, they're not that close. The closest they've been physically so far is when riding the same bike when Daryl escaped from the Sanctuary, and that's...

Anyway.

Feeling Jesus tense and start to pull back snaps Daryl out of his thoughts, and it's instinct more than a conscious decision at this point, hugging Jesus back. Daryl's arms curl gently around Jesus' waist and upper shoulders, cradling the smaller man with the care one would show a baby bird that fell out of its nest. Daryl's heart is beating hard and fast in his chest, his brain still trying to overcome the hard-wired panic at the unfamiliar contact, but Daryl's body is relaxing.

Jesus leans forward, heavier and closer than before, forearms up and pressing against the sides of Daryl's chest this time, fingers tangling into the collar of Daryl's shirt.

This is... Daryl wants to say uncomfortable, irritating, unwanted, awkward, but it's none of that. Yeah, ok, it's maybe a little awkward, but otherwise it's actually... nice. Soft. Warm. Exciting and calming at the same time.

The feeling is like a soothing bath, a cool shower after a long, hot day. Like drinking a glass of water after being parched for hours. Daryl's pulse lowers to a normal rate, his brain slows down and recalibrates, and he just.... breathes.

He can't remember the last time he was so close to someone for so long. Was it when they all slept in piles at various points before coming to Alexandria. Before prison, maybe?

Jesus turns his head slightly after a few quiet minutes, temple now resting on Daryl's shoulder, one hand sliding around to grip the back of Daryl's shoulder. He burrows ever closer, one leg ending up over Daryl's. Daryl shifts with him, natural like they did this a thousand times before, tightening his embrace carefully.

After what could be minutes or hours, time seeming to pass both really slow and very fast, Daryl's starting to feel the contortion his body is forced into. The twinge in his back will become a problem soon, Daryl can tell. It can't be comfortable for Jesus either, leaned forward like this, putting pressure on stomach and forcing his side into a stretch. And the biggest bruises are on Jesus' stomach, which is only a hint of heat at Daryl's side.

Aw, screw it.

„Hey, just a sec,“ Daryl whispers, and gently eases Jesus off of him. A sleepy face blinks back at him slowly, and Daryl quickly takes off first his own, then Jesus' shoes and socks.

„What-“ Jesus says, confused, but Daryl is already stretching out on the couch, pulling Jesus toward him.

Daryl panics for a brief second when Jesus hesitates but then Jesus just goes with it, pliant and almost clumsy, crawling half-way on top of Daryl and just melting into him. He settles back into his favored position immediately, eyes closed, toes curling against Daryl's ankle. His head is cradled under Daryl's chin, fingertips resting in the hollow of Daryl's throat, Jesus' torso and stomach a hot, firm line at Daryl's side. It's the welcome crackling of a warm fire on a cold night, this feeling of being covered and cared for, of protecting and caring for at the same time. Daryl wonders if Jesus also feels the growing heat of embers in his chest, this almost unwelcome feeling of a bond with yet another person forming. Another person to worry over when they get hurt, cry over when they die.

Jesus shifts with a tiny whimper and Daryl wraps his right arm more firmly around Jesus' waist, left draped over his head in a habitual sprawl left over from childhood.

There's no point in borrowing tomorrow's trouble. Whatever is supposed to happen will happen, there's nothing either of them can do about it.

And it's not like Daryl can go back now. It's too late. Little ninja prick is under his skin already, buried way too deep in his brain.

„Thanks, Daryl,“ Jesus mutters. Like Daryl is doing him a favor, like this moment here, now, in the middle of a fucking war, isn't the calmest Daryl's been since first hearing the name Negan. Like Daryl's brain isn't finally settling, more focused on the scent of Jesus' skin and the feel of his body in his arms than on replaying horror-filled images of the last few months on the inside of his eyelids.

It's ridiculous, how much Jesus gives of himself and how little he expects in return.

„Shut up,“ Daryl says, hesitating for a split second then running calloused fingertips gently through Jesus' hair, moving it away from his face. He gets distracted petting Jesus' hair for a moment, tracing the path from behind Jesus' ear to the back of his neck, watching Jesus' mouth curve into a smile.

Daryl closes his eyes, slides his arm around Jesus' shoulders and relaxes into the worn couch cushions. He listens to the reassuring sound of Jesus breathing, matching his own to it, feels Jesus' body grow heavy as he slips into sleep.

Daryl himself slips into sleep softly, swiftly, his last memory a kiss pressed to the crown of Jesus' head.


End file.
